At his desk in the
Central Register, Lewis was writing swiftly, his quill-tip pen skimming across
the page. A satisfied smile crossed his face as he dithered to read through
what he had just created.

Alice realized at last
that the queen was in factthe most monstrous and
cunning villain. There was no punishment too
severe for the crimes herenemies had committed.
It was for this reasonthat she proceeded upon
a plan to put an end to Alice’s life.

He sat thoughtfully for a second.

“Off with her head,” he said under his
breath.

“Then again,” he
added, “it doesn’t bode so well with the literary crowd. Perhaps something more
of a croquet element.”

A sharp,
insistent buzzing sound broke his train of thought, and he glanced up from his
manuscript. A red light above the door flashed, and Lewis pressed a button,
saying “You may enter…”

A moment later, a
crotchety old man with a cane and broad-brimmed hat emerged from a doorway,
walking towards him. He looked as if he were sleepwalking; his unresponsive
attitude was disturbing, and his face without expression of any kind.

The old man stood
rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead, and saying “I just got your
message, Mr. Carroll. I must say that your clerk was prompt in his delivery.
This has something to do with the manuscript, I presume?”

“Yes, indeed it
does. Now then—I’d say about ninety percent is finished. I’m up to the part
where the queen is infuriated by Alice’s pleasantry and innocence. Would you
like me to read you a short excerpt from the story?” He settled his glasses
more firmly on his nose, and began to read aloud.

“No, no,”
Rosenthal cut in, “that won’t be necessary. How long will you be?”

“Not too long,”
Lewis assured him. “All I have to do is download the finished drafts into the
main computer, create a hologram chip from it, and see how plausible Alice is.”

“And how do you
plan on doing that?”

“By splitting a
laser beam down the side of the ‘Wonderland’ program. Once I inject the chip,
I’ll enter a hologram world, a plane of pure illusion, where I can become one
of the characters and compete in the story line. I flatter myself that it is
rather ingenious.”

“Playing with
holograms can be dangerous,” warned Rosenthal. “My sister died in a program
involving shark attacks.”

But Lewis wasn’t
worried. He had a book to publish, and the only way he’d know if it was
bestseller material was if he played the story from beginning to end. In his
society, holograms were style, a parting of the ways, where the real world was
concerned, the end and the beginning, a celebration of alienated consciousness,
a mythical voyage into the present, a period, a semi-colon, a question mark;
part art, part physical, part time, part space…but just how did it work?

Lewis had once
said that the programs were based on amorous subjugation; basically, they lived
off captured emotions—also known as the Splintering Effect. Mind conditioned
machine, and absorbed feelings of shadowy beauty and grave ecstasy and
inexhaustible restlessness. The hologram world was one of stoned perfectionism
and imprisoned perceptions—a world of perplexities and uncertainties in which
people can imagine, or hope at best to achieve, their goals.

Rosenthal
repeated, like a bright schoolchild reciting lessons, “It can be dangerous.”

“Mr. Rosenthal,
do try to think logically,” said Lewis, as he made his way to the processing
area. “The programs are made up of fictional characters—they’ll go on existing
in their own world. I’m sorry about your sister, but that was probably due to
bad memory inputs. You cannot be killed by a fictional character, plain and
simple.”

Rosenthal frowned
unfavorably. Lewis shook his head. “Now, I’ve seen that expression before. You
have every right to worry, but don’t. I’ve done this at least a dozen times.
And once the book is finished, you can deliver it to Lady Fenshyn [whom he’d
based the queen’s character upon] herself.”

*

When Lewis
reached the hologram room, the operating table was empty. Rosenthal was
walking about the control area checking instrument readings. A tall machine in
the back of the room caught his eye. It was some kind of processor, a machine
that photographs and extracts the entire depth of art and literature, and then
feeds it into a computer. He nodded towards the table. “Is that where you’ll
be lying?”

“Once the
processing is complete,” Lewis said, as he gestured towards the computer
modems. He fed his finished drafts to the processing machine, inserting them
six pages at a time, through a wide slot at the top of the main modem. To the
rear of the main modem was a similar slot, but much smaller, where, a few
minutes later, a chip popped out. Lewis grunted with an anticipation. “Well, I
guess that’s it. I’ve entered the book’s title, theme, and character lineup—all
data is now on the memory server.”

“So what does
that mean?”

“The chip has
been coded.” He injected the chip into his arm and rolled on the operating
table. The remote by his side was unnecessary, for Rosenthal would be keeping
track of his progress manually. Careful observation was essential on the part
of the person in charge of mind entry; one foul-up could result in loss of
brain matter.

For some time
Rosenthal had been wandering around the room examining everything with a
curiosity that was somehow both casual and intense at the same time. He turned
around and looked with satisfaction at the writhing form on the table. Lewis
was resisting the effects of the system for an amazingly long time, but soon
he’d have to give way. Rosenthal wished he could stay and watch the entire
process, but on the eve of Lady Fenshyn’s banquet he had many other duties. He
sank into a chair and glanced idly at the manuscript before him. He picked up
the next-to-last chapter, read it, and saw that there was no continuation to
the queen’s grasp over Alice. “Strange. A story without a future….”

Lewis opened his
eyes and responded to this observation with the same adamant look that
Rosenthal had greeted his earlier remarks with. He waited for him to say
something, but under his poker-faced influence, Lewis found himself repeating
in a soothing whisper, “Wonderland is a land of fiction—it does not exist.”

Then there was
silence.

The silence,
which came so abruptly that is was like a physical blow, astounded Lewis. The
humming in the background ceased instantly, and the old man’s shadow that had
been looming over him disappeared. Frightfully, Lewis turned his head—and
found that the room was empty. The light from the kerosene lantern in the wall
continued to flicker and leap, illuminating no horrid spectacle—until finally
it too disappeared.

There was an
electrical surge, and a cloud of white, pungent smoke. When the fumes died
away, the Central Register had vanished. Lewis was alone, totally changed.

He lay there
exactly as he’d been at the moment the chip was injected into his body, with
his head upraised and the table under his back—but he had undergone an
extraordinary transformation. He was stiff and motionless, translated into two
dimensions, like a cardboard cutout. It was as if he’d suddenly ceased to be
Lewis, and in his place was an ink drawing—a lifelike picture from the pages of
a book. And then, suddenly, he felt a cool breeze, as if he were outdoors.

From total
darkness, the faintest glimmer of light began to slide across the rim of the
sky, and for the first time Lewis could see vague, looming shapes surrounding
him. Tall trees—unbelievably tall and straight—like the pillars and arches of a
cathedral; they were of different sizes and shapes, clustered closely together
in strange patterns, almost like a maze. He rose to his feet with a little
difficulty, supporting himself by holding onto the end of a branch of a nearby
tree which, it just so happened, had been supporting the edge of the operating
table like a knitted hammock.

How shockingly
stiff and sore he felt; his bones creaked as he flexed his body.

He screwed up his
eyes, trying to see more clearly—but it was still very dark. The forest tree
trunks disappeared upwards into spine-tingling blackness. Here and there,
between tall columns, he could glimpse a small patch of starry sky, streaked
with green light—but that was all. Dawn was just around the corner, and an
awakening was about to take place. The awakening of Lewis’ story…

A little way off
among the towering tree trunks, Lewis was still trying to find a place—a role
to play in the hologram. But he couldn’t, for there was something wrong with
the program. It seemed too real, much different from his previous ventures.

“Alice…I’m here!”
he said energetically, trying to project his voice as far as possible. “Are
you there? I’ve come to guide you!”

He hurried on,
terrified that he would lose his way. To be so near and yet so far—it was
almost too much to bear. As he dodged around one of the immense tree trunks he
saw a small girl. Her skirt was snagged on a grarled twig, and she twitched it
away irritably. Then she stopped to fix her stocking. As she did, she turned
around and shot her creator a curious glance. Lewis stopped as well, to catch
his breath. It had to be her—she wore a pale blue dress, with a silk sash at
her waist, and a fluffy skirt, puffed out by stiff under-petticoats; she also
wore high-buttoned boots—and upon her head was a band of ribbon tying back her
long blond hair.

“Alice?” he said.

At the end of the
forest was a giant mushroom with a caterpillar atop it, half hidden in the
shadows. A second later there was a flash of white fur and a flustered rabbit
scurried by. Lewis blinked. Could the rabbit really have been consulting a
pocket-watch? Nonsense—he must have been imagining things. Besides, this forest
was very deceptive—it played tricks with your eyes. If only he’d read up,
revised his work, and been more familiar with Alice In Wonderland, he might
have been better prepared for a trap.

Halfway through a
clearing he was brought to a standstill, for a brick wall faced him—a wall with
a door in it. But the door was too small, and the wall seemed to go on, in
both directions, forever; there was no getting around it. He turned to retrace
his steps—and found another wall right behind him. He put an effort into
catching up with Alice, and realized with a loathsome feeling of doom that
he’d been boxed in, caught between four walls which hadn’t been there a moment
earlier. He looked right and left.

“Alice!” he cried
in sudden panic. “Where are you?”

But his voice
bounced back at him from these four blank walls. No one could hear him; he was
imprisoned.

He returned
automatically to the first wall, because that at least had a door in it…perhaps
it promised a way of escape. But he was too big to fit through the midget
entrance. The door kept swinging back on rusty hinges with a high-pitched
creak that set his teeth on edge. In the palm of his hand was a cookie that he
popped in his mouth. He closed his eyes. A second later, he was the same size
as the door.

Through the door
he could see nothing but darkness, and he hesitated for a moment; then he took
his courage in both hands and told himself, “Perhaps it won’t be so gloomy once
my eyes get used to it…and anyway, I’m not afraid of a hologram.”

So he stepped
fearlessly through the doorway—and at once the floor opened up beneath his
feet, and he gave a shrill cry for help as he fell…and fell…and fell some
more. Would the fall never come to an end?

Poor Lewis! How
could he know that it was only a rabbit hole, when he hadn’t made one for the
most vital part of his story?

He landed inside
a glass cage in yet another gloomy forest. How awful—to be in yet another
distorted, twisted-looking place, boxed in again. This wasn’t how he imagined
his story to be. Not this dark or loathsome. Outside his glass prison he saw
two figures, tall and round and dressed equally. They were playing tricks on
him. One threw a tomato and gawked at him from a clump of bushes, as one would
an exhibit.

Tweedledee and
Tweedledum ran up for a closer look at this wonder of nature. From inside Lewis
saw their faces pressed on the glass, flattened and distorted into hideous
shapes like the masks of gargoyles. He closed his eyes. Tweedledee looked at
his twin. “What do you think it is?”

“I’m not sure,
but I think it’s the same species as that little girl.”

“Then he must be
human too. We better let him go. Why? What would the queen say if we had this
creature in our possession? You know how she is. She’d OFF our heads!”

“Oh, dear, you’re
right. I’ll get the key.”

Lewis was
crouched motionless, with his eyes still closed. But when he finally stood up
and opened them, the two had disappeared into the wilderness, and the cage was
gone. He got up and ran.

He was getting
weary, having been on the move a while, but he wouldn’t give up.

“Alice,” he
called, as he had been at intervals through the story.

This time he
heard a reply, loud and clear and close at hand. A purring voice.

“Perhaps I can
help you.”

“Well, well! How
do you do? If it isn’t the Cheshire Cat. Perhaps you CAN.”

“Call me
Chester. This is a corrupt program. There was some kind of computer glitch
upon entry, and that’s why you can’t escape this phase of the hologram. Luckily
I’ve come to help you, just as you programmed yourself to help Alice.” He
pointed to an area of land overgrown with waist-high foliage, then disappeared,
leaving behind a phantom smile. Lewis hurried through the undergrowth. It was
much darker, and difficult to see. He suspected the cat of sending him the
wrong way and a feeling of panic began to grip him. Suddenly he came to a
path. Voices sounded ahead and a flicker of light illuminated the grass. He
made out a small thatched cottage. As he watched, the low wooden door opened
and the watch-consulting rabbit and a crazy-looking man with a top hat walked
out. It was Mr. Rosenthal, and he was the Mad Hatter. The two walked briskly
along the path toward him. He darted back into the bushes. They brushed past
without noticing him and sat down at a table where piping hot tea was being
served.

For a second he
was tempted to follow, but a voice inside his head told him to investigate the
cottage. It was just possible that one of the rooms inside was a way out of
the hologram world. He crept forward and opened the door. The sight inside
transfixed him with horror. A monstrous hybrid lay on the bed, half eagle and
half lion. The fabled griffin, no doubt. The creature was dead.

“You should be
glad,” said a voice in the room. “This might have been you.”

Lewis couldn’t
speak.

“This must be how
the queen takes out her frustrations,” the voice continued, and a moment later
Alice stepped out of the shadows.

“You created him,
didn’t you?” she asked. He nodded. “What was he like?”

“Why are YOU
here?” he whispered.

“Wonderland…Wonderland owns me, body and soul.”

“I must get out
of here. My fairy tale world is becoming a nightmare.”

A cunning
expression appeared on her face. “Oh, please, let me come with you. We’ll go
together.” She took him by the hand and started pulling him away. He
hesitated. He could no longer be sure. Trying to conceal his fear, he said,

“If you want my
opinion, I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

“You’re as bad as
the others!” Her voice became hard and rasping. “You want me to die!
Wonderland wants me to die!”

Alarmed, Lewis
backed toward the door. As he did so he heard a noise from outside. Someone was
entering the cottage! He looked around frantically for a back door as heavy
footsteps ascended the porch. But it was too late. The Queen of Hearts had entered,
her royal guard spreading out in an armed cordon.

Lewis backed up
against the wall, Alice hiding behind his coat-tail. From inside his head he
could hear the voice of the Cheshire Cat saying, “Tsk, tsk, you’ve become an
enemy of your own creation. You found Alice, but how will you leave the
hologram world and finish the story?”

The Mad Hatter
pushed his way through the armed cordon. He looked a little dazed, as if
someone had drugged his tea.

“I don’t quite
follow—being your book agent and all—have I got to finish off another story?”